Peter Redgrove

Expectant Father

Final things walk home with me through Chiswick Park,Too much death, disaster; this yearAll the children play at cripplesAnd cough along with one foot in the gutter.But now my staircase is a way to bedAnd not the weary gulf she sprinted down for doorbellsSo far gone on with the child a-thump inside;A buffet through the air from the kitchen door that sticksAwakes a thumb-size fly. Butting the rebutting window-paneIt shouts its buzz, so I fling the glass up, let it flyRemembering as it skims to trees, too late to swat,That flies are polio-whiskered to the browsWith breeding-muck, and homeOn one per cent of everybody’s children.